


Too Late To Listen

by L_Harding



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, American Sign Language, Angst, Drug Addiction, Gen, Homelessness, Hurt Klaus Hargreeves, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, Klaus Hargreeves Needs A Hug, Mute Klaus Hargreeves, Non-Binary Klaus Hargreeves, Non-binary character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Protective Ben Hargreeves, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Sober Klaus Hargreeves, Underage Prostitution, Well they're getting there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-23
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-11-28 21:37:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18213953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/L_Harding/pseuds/L_Harding
Summary: When Ben died, Klaus stopped talking.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot where I got this idea, but it got me to start writing again so I can't complain. That said, It's been a while since I've written fiction, so the flow or wording might be weird, just let me know  
>   
> I might stop this here as a one-shot, but there is something resembling a plot in this thing I call a brain so *shrug* 
> 
> Also despite my characterization, I do not hate Luther or any of the siblings really. As someone who grows up in an abusive environment, Luther reminds me of my sister. Trauma is a bitch.
> 
> Chapter Warnings will be in the endnotes..
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!

When Ben died, Klaus stopped talking. Days before, Hargreeves locked Number Four in opaque walls of the mausoleum with only a container of water and the instructions to “get over his childish fears.” A mission gone wrong, however, cut short their training, for it resulted in the unfortunate death of one of the members of the Academy. No injury could be severe enough to call off a matter of discipline, but death was another matter. Three days after sealing its doors, Hargreeves opened the mausoleum to find, not the pitiful screams and whimpers of the child, but instead an eerie silence and glossed over eyes focused on what he could not see.

In the end, Hargreeves needed Number One's help moving Four back to the house. No matter what the old man tried, Klaus remained immune to outside influences. No threat, no action, no pain. As much as he hates such weakness, Hargreeves could not afford to lose yet another of his wards, especially so close to another, so he allowed the teen to be taken to the infirmary and stay until they regained some function.

The rest of the children came one by one. No matter what the death of a sibling instilled, the fear that came from crossing their _Father_ always won out. Still, each visited. Vanya came first, free from the burden of training which had only increased since the loss of Ben (and Klaus). She slipped in on the second day, for _Father_ only gave them one to mourn and strictly prohibited entry into the lower floor where the infirmary was held. Quite obvious to Vanya, powerless little Number Seven, was the fact that she, at that moment, possessed more power than her sibling. They laid, IV in arm, head lulled to one side, eyes barely blinking. Never in her life had she seen them so still. Even in sleep, curled up against her bed as she practiced her violin, did they twitch and moan.

Pulling up a stool from the corner of the room, she sat and laced her calloused fingers in Klaus’ own. Rubbing the back of their palm with her thumb, she talked idly about anything she could think of. Klaus never enjoyed the quiet; Five, before he disappeared --not died, Vanya told herself-- once hypothesized it frightened them as much as the dark. So she filled the room with the sound of her voice. She only left when she knew the other's training would soon be over, but not before kissing Klaus upon their forehead and promising to bring her violin the next time she came.

Not all too surprising, Number Two showed up second. He lingered in the doorway unsure of how to enter. Klaus was still confined to the infirmary, but the IV no longer remained in their arm. Grace, that morning at breakfast, informed the family in her steady tone that Number Four responded slightly to stimuli and ate food placed in front of their lips. As unimpressive as those facts were, the advancements removed the IV and started talk of moving them to their own room. Despite hearing of his sibling's state, finally seeing them rattled the cool unfeeling exterior Diego put on. Number Two felt his legs tremble, walking toward the gurney. Locked in an upward position, it gave the illusion sitting up, but somewhere inside of him, he thought the only reason Klaus did not fall is because they did not possess the resistance.

Diego, never one for words, not since his _Father_ berated him for a stutter out of his control -- as he kept reminding himself of-- moved silently. Pushing Number Four’s legs aside, Diego hopped upon the cushioned seat and took out a knife from within his boots. With the sterile cleaning solutions within reach, he made work disinfecting his collection. His position, despite the little voice in his head, had nothing to do with the fact Klaus liked, no needed, physical contact to thrive. Ben, dear Ben, always the pacifist, once knocked Diego into a walk when he yelled at Number Four for trying to grab his hand one too many times. Ben later explained, in hushed tone late at night, about his theory of touch acting as an anchor to a person surrounded by more death than life. Diego never complained again. Now, he sat with his legs bumped against Klaus’ own, polishing knives not yet used since their last cleaning. But Klaus did not need to know that.

Allison did not want to visit when she did. However, what Hargreeves demands, he gets -- even if he lacks her power of persuasion. Klaus, out of the infirmary but not yet possessing the power to feed himself, remained confined in their room. The only movements they made, Grace guided by taking their hand in her own and leading them for they lacked the awareness to say no. This pliability caused Hargreeves to more than once put them in training with the others to see how Klaus would react. Only Number One would issue a blow but only after much trepidation and a glare from their _Father_. To the irritation of Hargreeves, Klaus did nothing to block the blow and dropped like a stone after it had been dealt. Curbing the intense desire, her siblings shared, to check how much damage Hargreeves inflicted, Allison instead watched with cold eyes as Grace took Klaus by the hand and lead them back inside.

After the third attempt, all with similar results, Hargreeves pulled Allison aside and directed her to Klaus's room. She blinked slowly, her gaze traveling from the man before her to her sibling's comatose form. The instructions were clear. Taking a step forward, she whispered her magic words: “I heard a rumor that you acted like yourself again.” Within seconds, their eyes lit up. Allison reached out and put her arms around them, smiling when they returned the gesture. Her smile broadened when Hargreeves gave her a nod of approval as she left Number Four's room to inform the others. The good fortune lasted around 16 hours, however, for after the children saw them start to regress. Their moments and speech slowed, all drive lost. After 24 hours, the shell of Klaus returned full force. _Father_ tried to make Number Three use her power again, but each time its hold on Klaus weakened. In the end, Allison said no to his next demand, the only one to ever do so -- other than Number Five but they all saw where that got him. It became too hard to watch the life leave their eyes each day.

She would come later, over her own accord, crying into their shoulder and murmuring lost apologizes. After a few minutes, she stood up, wiped away any remaining tears, and marched out of the room, turning her back on her sibling once more.

Luther came last, having seen them first. The words their Father spit as he raised Klaus in his arms the first day cemented in his head. "Weak," that was all Number Four was, “unable to live up to his -- their -- potential,” “not worthy of his --their -- number.” Somewhere deep inside Number One, he questioned those words, not enough to speak them allowed, however. His visit lasted only a minute before clambering back to his room, ready to deny he came at all.

A month after Ben died, Klaus disappeared. Not like Five, loud in front of them all, but quietly slipping out like smoke from an extinguished match. They each blame their _Father_ , even if they do not voice it. Vanya found the room empty in the morning, having taken up Grace's job of feeding Klaus his breakfast in order to give him some company. Her shriek echoed down the corridors until it reached the dining hall where the others sat. Diego made it up first, knife out in front of him. Luther, just a second behind, checked the windows for forced entry as Diego checked the closet. Allison walked in about to help as well when Number Two announced the bag of essentials Number Four packed was gone as well. Hargreeves, a step behind Vanya, turned around at those words and called for the rest to come and finish their food. Later, in the dead of night, Vanya questioned how Diego knew of the bag. He answered, tone soft, he had seen them packing for years. He just never thought they would actually.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben fought hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not exactly where I thought it was going to go, but serves me right for not outlining beforehand. I should actually get to my plot next chapter but let's see where my brain takes me.
> 
> I can't promise a consistent and timely upload schedule but I'll try my best.

When Ben died, Klaus knew right away. They did not know what drew ghosts to them and cursed their inability to turn it off at every turn. A cocktail of drugs and alcohol worked just as well, dulling out the harsher of the sights and sounds. Yet it did not take them away completely. However, that forsaken day, or maybe night -- for time warped inside the endless howling of the mausoleum walls -- Klaus thanked whatever shapeless deity lied above. Not for themself but for Ben. They would take whatever horrors death awaited for Ben to not be alone and lost to the wails of the afterlife.  


However, this thanks did not stop the shock and trauma from ripping through Klaus as they saw the mangled, blood-drench body of their brother and friend. Screams died in their throat as they felt their words tear through their vocal cords. Pushing themselves further against the rough jagged wall, Number Four lost themself, muttering “No” over and over. Each time it grew softer and softer until no voice remained at all. The words, however, still echoed throughout their head harmonizing well with the wails of the lost, growing louder until nothing else could be heard. Time and emotion left them, leaving behind a spirit locked within its flesh, emote to all feeling.  


When Klaus woke for the first time, Allison's voice danced in their ears. It drowned out the howls and the blood and Ben. Ben’s form, which remained a constant, anchoring them to some grasps of reality, no longer appeared. Not covered in blood, not at all. He existed just as a fragment of a blurred picture imprinted upon Klaus’ mind -- a thought they reached out to but could not grasp. The ghosts that did appear choked silent threats but otherwise remained mute; the ringing of Number Three’s power binding each of their lips for the time being. In their place, the ripples of Allison's effect lingered.  


Klaus acted on instinct when arms wrapped around their shoulders; the warmth in the hold expelling the notion of it being the dead’s touch. Number Four did not remember being released from their hellish training. One moment, their screams bounced off the cold mausoleum walls and the next they awoke to the cool, quiet of their bedroom. The next few minutes merged together as Klaus struggled to gain their bearings. Only when their other siblings entered their room did they make an effort to move -- the dichotomy of their collective worry and joy cutting through Klaus’ confusion. Their siblings’ concern stirred distress deep within Klaus’ core. What about them caused such worry to mar each of their features?  


Hargreeves did not allow time to ask such fickle questions. After a short time of light support, dancing expertly around the tension, their _Father_ declared for them all to prepare for training. Resignation lined each face, but no one protested. The family left, with a mute nod from Luther, a small smile from Allison, a pat on the leg from Diego, and a squeeze of the hand from Vanya. A small part of Klaus’ mind dared to wonder of the whereabouts of Ben.  


Standing, lucid for the first time in days, Klaus felt their hands tremble as they slid on their practice uniform. The lingering effects of alcohol withdrawal finally making their way to the surface. Allison’s words, instead of nulling the gnawing of addiction, heightened it. The days of unexpected sobriated did nothing to quench the urge for a drink or take a hit of something stronger. It took Klaus little effort to find a bottle of whiskey that they stashed away -- stolen from their _Father’s_ liquor cabinet during the aftermath of a prior mausoleum visit. Tilting their head back, Klaus downed two mouthfuls before returning the mostly empty container back to its rightful hiding place. Prepared with an oncoming buzz, they made their way out to the training area.  


All the Numbers minus Six stood out in the yard when Four arrived, with Seven standing hunched by Hargreeves’ side. Always one for efficiency, Hargreeves barked out for Klaus and Luther to spar to make up for their lost time. Raising their hand, in a manner some would consider sarcastic, Klaus asked: “Shouldn’t we wait for Number Six, sir?”  


Eyes darted around, each unsure of how to progress. Hargreeves, jaw firm, barked “There is no time for such insolence. I will not have you make a mockery of the work we do here or the lost.”  


Klaus, for their part, looked earnest, confusion sinking into their features at the words. Diego, physically and emotionally closest to Klaus of the remaining sibling, put his hand on their shoulder. “Klaus,” he started, “Ben died. Remember?”  


Klaus’ brain stalled. Allison’s tone, which still rung in their ears from the second they woke up, overwhelmed their mind. In that moment, they reminded their siblings of Grace when something contradicted her coding. However, as strange as the moment was, it ended in a second. Smiling just a touch too robotic, they said “Of course I do.” Stunned, Diego let his hand fall away as Klaus advanced to the center of the grounds.  


The rest of training went on as it usually did, long and tiresome. Klaus’ physical ability seemed no worse for wear, but still below the others. After scrutinizing Number Four’s skill, Hargreeves nodded and sent them all off. Klaus's behavior all but matched theirs of the past, with the only exception surrounding Ben. Anytime his name was brought up, Klaus paused as if reassessing, only to carry on as if nothing happened. It was if they could not be, as Allison demanded, “normal” with Ben dead, so their brain washed him out entirely.  


This progressed until around the 16th hour of Number Four’s lucidity. An hour or two before curfew fell upon the Academy, a figure glimmered in Klaus’ periphery. Unlike the other ghost they tried to get used to, this one flicked in and out of existence unable to settle. As much as Klaus attempted to ignore the spirits around them, their attention locked upon the specter. The more they focused upon it, the more the creature’s image became clear. Details came in flashes before solidifying. A sweater and tie, a blazer with stitched insignia, a domino mask with white eyes. Then blood. It dripped down the young face in front of them, covering the uniform and pooling on the ground.  


Somewhere in the back of their mind, the awareness of their siblings' new worry crept in. The knowing of someone sitting by their bedside though unsure of how they arrived there.  


When the spirit opened its mouth to speak, Klaus shifted, leaning back slightly. Despite the dead’s lack of voice that day, they steeled themself for the wail about to come forth from the figure. Shock ripped through them when instead all it uttered, in a broken tone, was their name. Not how other spirits did it in the past -- high pitched and jagged, a desperate horrid plea for relief. No, while containing misery, it bore the mark of gentle longing and care. Eyes growing wide, Klaus’ mouth traced the outline of the word, unable to say it: Ben.  


Seeing their brother snapped the hold Allison’s power had on them. The dead grew louder, making up for their day of silence. Cutting through the space, Ben glid over to Klaus. His hand tried to cup theirs in his own, only for it to shimmer through. However, his presence alone brought some comfort within Klaus.  


Ben fought hard. Fought to help Klaus heal, fought to stay despite Allison’s word, and fought to appear every time he vanished. He felt Klaus fighting with him, and in that Ben grew stronger each day, and Number Three’s hold weakened. Klaus, in turn, felt normality coming back to them slowly. Life started to fill them once more outside the fabricated reality forced upon them. It helped that, after a while, the attempts stopped happening. Klaus’ siblings cared for them in their own ways -- from Vanya’s playing, Diego’s presence, Luther’s stalling at their door in each passing -- and Allison’s was to stop. However, that was not enough to stay.  


The blood coating Ben’s form decreased slowly until his normal appearance greeted Klaus one day. The trauma of seeing their brother’s dead body lessening each day, but that did not stop Klaus from being eternally grateful for Ben’s changed appearance. Proud in both their and their brother’s ability, Klaus moved to put their plan to leave in action. They prepared their escape for years but could not force themself to leave. However, Ben was dead and they could not bear to watch another fall.  


Sneaking into Diego’s room when the rest of the Academy did sunrise training, Klaus grabbed a pair of worn combat boots -- the final step to their escape. Hargreeves never allowed Klaus to own shoes past the age of seven. After figuring out their power heightened when barefoot, the man forbade them from wearing any type of shoes. It became normal for Klaus to steal each siblings’ footwear, regardless if it fit them or not. Klaus could still feel the scar tissue on their soles from before their feet became calloused.  


Going back to their room, Klaus smiled, for Ben’s form stayed the same despite the adding of the shoes. Throwing open the closet, Klaus picked up the bag hidden in the corner. Heaving it onto their bed, they did one more run through of its contents. Slipping a few trinkets they had picked up the last few days while under Number Three’s spell and a bottle of vodka into a side pocket, they zipping it back up and threw it over their shoulder. Giving the room one last glance, they climbed out their window and slid down the piping on the side of the house facing the alley. It was a move they performed many a time to go and purchase weed. Lifting two fingers to their head, Klaus sent the house and its inhabitants a mock salute before trudging off into the morning fog with Ben trailing at their heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning  
> mentions of blood, withdraw, and alcohol use


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sleep did not last long for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I got Ben and Klaus' dynamic quite right but I also basically took out something central to Klaus' character so I am giving myself a pass. 
> 
> Also, I storyboarded a couple of chapters so at least I know where I am going. My plan is a chapter a week but hopefully sooner if all goes well. But don't hold me to anything.

Living on the streets was hard, but Klaus expected nothing less. Many ghosts which haunted them came from broken lives on the cusp of society. The bodies, if not lost to the ties of earth, showed a range of emaciation, and dirt and grime littered their forms. In back alleys or dark corners -- all places Klaus frequented to score their latest hit -- spirits lingered. Death walked the streets, never settling never stilling.  


Klaus avoided sleep the first night. Unsure if the Academy would hunt for them, they wanted to get as far away from the old house as possible. It had nothing to do with a fear of settling down for the first time, and what might become of them when they let their guard down in slumber. The fear of facing the ghosts on the street, both alive and dead. At least, that was what they told themself.  


Klaus made it four days before their body gave out on them. Years of power-induced insomnia left them an expert on running on dreads, avoiding sleep for as long as possible. The longest they had ever gotten was a week -- it resulted with them passing out on a mission and being confined to the infirmary for a day and the mausoleum for two. Ben watched on as his sibling stumbled through the first night. The past weeks depleted their energy, and they needed rest. Ben told Klaus such. They just raised an eyebrow and lifted the edge of their lip at him. Even as their words left them, their sarcastic nature had not. However, after two long days, after scraping open their hands and knees from when their feet could no longer support them, Klaus took heed of Ben's advice. Partly. It took them two more days, hidden behind tarps and old construction supplies in a beaten down alley, bag strapped against their back before sleep found Klaus. Ben stood above them, acting as a personal watchdog, keeping the things of the night away as best he could. While physically there was nothing he could do, it helped Klaus’ mind ease as they drifted off.  


Sleep did not last long for them. All throughout Klaus’ life, waking up was never peaceful. The following morning was no different. Their body tipped over, expelling bile and the little food they forced down the night before. Screams burned in the back of their throat from the grief and horror only they and the dead could see. Sleep lowered a veil, which for Klaus, barely existed already. With shaking hands, Klaus blindly reached for the vodka they stashed away. The fear of Ben fading away kept Klaus sober -- one of their longest stints since first picking up a bottle after a brutal training session -- but the late dreams consumed them until they were lost to everything, even their brother.  


Despite the empty stomach, Klaus downed more than a healthy amount of liquor. Anything to stop the near never-ending howling which only grew louder each day they avoided their addiction. When they opened their eyes again, the ghosts had disappeared. But so had Ben. With the buzz coursing through them, Klaus felt the regret for their actions. Alone, both them and Ben. They could deal with the loneliness; despite the crowd of siblings, Klaus had often found themself alone, for most of their siblings could only take so much of them at a time. However, Klaus did not want to leave Ben alone to the darkness. They knew what laid behind it, and what happens to spirits who dwelled there for too long. Klaus tucked the bottle back into their bag -- not yet possessing the strength to throw it out -- and waited.  


Ben appeared while the effects of the alcohol still coursed in their system; the other ghosts not yet appearing but not far behind. In the back of their minds, the siblings shared some theory about their bond before death strengthening Ben and his tie to Klaus. Neither spoke it, however. Moving to sit by Klaus, Ben laid his head, settling it right above their shoulder. While no physical touch occurred, Klaus felt a slight warmth spread through their neck and arm. They hummed. Content, they stayed, leaning against each other as well as one could.  


After a time, Klaus turned their head, an apology in their eyes. Ben smiled soft but true wishing he could do more to comfort his kin. “I don't blame you.” His fingers ghosted over Klaus’ cheek as they let their head fall in shame. “Please, don't blame yourself either.” Ben knew his words would do next to nothing, but he would repeat them for eternity if that was how long it took for the message to land.  


As much as they both would have liked to have stayed, the urge to move stirred inside them. They dealt their unspoken message, communicated only through body language and facial expression. Years of forced silence over meals and locked proximity in the low light of night lead each of them to become experts at reading each other's cues. Unlike their other siblings, Ben and Klaus bled their emotions freely, and each willing to take up the burden of the other. The fact they both held contempt and fear of the power inside them only strengthened their bond. Therefore, neither one spoke, but both knew plans had to form. Until they found a safe space, staying still was not an option. Safety, relative as it was, they each yearned for, both from the living and the dead.  


Back bending like a cat from slumber, Klaus stood. They stretched, releasing the tension held within from the days cramped up, hidden. Their fingers curled, brushing over the tattoos marring their palms. Brands their father forced upon them. All the tattoos were -- marks reminding them where they came from so they could never fully forget. Ben looked at them, message clear in his eyes. Scrunching up their nose for a moment, Klaus took out a half eaten protein bar and forced it down their stomach. Sticking their tongue out at their apparition of a brother, Klaus surveyed the scene. Any evidence of their stay could be detrimental if the Academy decided to track them. However, Klaus had to think ahead. With one look at Ben, securing their thought, they took out a knife hidden with a layer of their show's inner lining. Thumbing the steel of Diego's blade for just a moment, Klaus went to work cutting off a section of tarp small enough to carry and a bundle of rope. Before tying their now makeshift shelter around their bag, they took out a disposable wipe from within one of its pockets. It took longer than they would have liked and dirt still lingered on certain places, but Klaus felt clean. A little accomplishment but huge in their mind.  


Their bag sagged heavy on Klaus’ shoulders as they prepared to move on -- scared to move by day but not willing to wait for night. A little chorus of whispers sang in Klaus’ ears. The high of the alcohol dissipating, leaving them with a stark reminder of their addiction. Ben, always Ben, cast a sad smile with no trace of pity. “Come on,” he offered, going to extend his hand before drawing it back again. “Let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning  
> Vomit, Alcohol Use


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Physical cues only went so far

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear when I was story-boarding this all I wrote was 'Klaus and Ben learn ASL.' Did I expect this chapter to get so dark? No. Did I expect to spend like 700 words on Klaus' drug addiction? Also no. However, they are constantly surrounded by their triggers and have almost no support system, so yeah I think it's realistic that it's gonna be hard. I also needed to deal with Ben's trauma a little and the reasoning of why he's still around so two for one.
> 
> Also, I don't know why I apparently hate dialogue. I just do going by the maybe 14 lines of it in 6000 words and mute character.

Klaus’ stomach clenched as they entered the marble halls of library lobby. Paranoia stemming from years of constant eyes upon them proved correct as they met the stares of the staff behind the counter. A few displayed the decency to lower their gaze while the others showed no mark of artificial shame, tracking Klaus’ lackadaisical movements openly. Ben glared from his invisible stance behind Klaus, but his sibling could not righteously get anger to stir. They knew how they appeared -- wild and greased hair with clothes haphazardly thrown on their person, marked up bag wrapped around their shoulders, and glazed eyes flitting each way and that. They appeared homeless and high, both true at the present moment.

  
Klaus could not avoid the dead forever; the consistent cacophony of howls and moans bombarded their every moment. Sleep itself only trapped them in scene after scene of other's torment. The first relapse, consisting only of an inhale or more of weed, existed to stave off the ghosts haunting their nightmares. Sleep meant closed eyes to Ben's vanishing in the midst of their high. As the trips continued, Ben recovered quicker each time. As much as he despised Klaus’ drug use, Ben understood the reasoning behind it and saw the benefits -- from curtailing the touches of the dead to the unintentional enhancing his and Klaus’ bond.

  
However, weed and alcohol only lasted for so long before their effects slipped. Klaus loved momentum and loathed when it slammed to a halt, so they kept the high going, building on harder substances. As one known to jump straight into the deep end, their first trip not on weed resulted in Ben disappearing for six days. When he returned, the toll of time shown clear. Blood, which for weeks washed clean from his body, splattered over his uniform, and his figure hunched over itself in an illusion of touch. Klaus, partially blind due to the self-inflicted haze, shook uncontrollably as if doused in ice water in the dead of winter. Crawling along the broken concrete, they knelt beside Ben's feet, reaching out to touch but knowing they could not. Ben, for his part, stood motionless, locked in a battle against himself and the demons both real and imaginary.

  
Drop by ever-present drop, blood cleared from Ben's form. Faster than before, but Ben did not deserve one second, not one more reminder of the gruesome tragedy of his death. Not for the first time, Klaus wished their body permitted use of their voice. Facial expression and mouthed words managed to produce adequate results but not when the subjects failed to look at you. However, they refused to depart from Ben’s side, not until he looked down after hours frozen in place. Sinking like lead, Ben dropped leveling out with Klaus. Neither spoke and neither tried to, instead basking in the ambient quiet. Both knew and both denied the blatant fact of a similar event occurring again. Sometimes living in a fabricated reality was best.

  
The lie lasted until the living made their attack. Bruised lips, ripped clothes, and bloodied skin left Klaus in a state of dissociation. When it lifted, they reached for the remnants of their stash, craving to disappear again. The next crash happened when the shakes got so bad that Klaus was willing to sell anything to alleviate them. Shivering stained the aftermath thought not tied to the withdraw, and Ben, firm and resolute, fought to remain by their side, to not drift off into the dark’s call. Hard as it was to witness Klaus’ torment, Ben would not leave them. Through life and death, they both endured together.

  
From that moment onward, no drug, no liquor broke the tether between them. So despite the high coursing through their bloodstream, Ben glided into the library's halls right beside his sibling. Ben could not blame Klaus, not that he did most times. A corpse, leering at the mediums’ young form -- not Ben's, almost never Ben's -- followed them for the better part of the week. His words crossed the line into perversion quickly, leaving them scared to sleep or wash. After passing out from exhaustion only to wake to the spirit -- for who can call that creature a man -- trailing over their body with Ben struggling to stay in between them, did Klaus succumb. The ghost had not made its presence known since.

  
With the influence of weed and the ethereal nature they often exhibited, Klaus danced through the rows of books letting Ben guide them. One of Vanya’s pieces -- name lost to the wind -- played in their ears, softening their eyes. Ben, eyes lighting up, motioned for them, pointing to a section of bindings. Book after book on language, teaching English, Spanish, Mandarin. Klaus’ fingers traced the spines, hovering over the few in the German selection. It took them back to the late nights at the Academy, looking up the tongue few ghosts often spoke. Mastery can effortless, despite the anger of Hargreeve when it slipped out -- burned books hurt just as much cut cheeks. They made the endeavor to be better when learning Spanish.

  
Eyes skimming the rest of the row, they settled on the reason for their visit: there on the shelves, at least six books on American Sign Language. Closer inspection showed two detailed the origin and the importance but taught no signs. Nimble fingers reached out, pulling gently one marked Part One off the shelf. Shifting over to lay against one of the cushioned seats the library offered -- a luxury few and far between in their recent history -- the medium cracked open the spine and flitted through the pages. Ben smirked, a light laugh escaping from his lips. From his perch above Klaus, situated on the armrest of the sofa, he began to read his own version of the book. The week before, they found out Klaus could telecommunicate objects to Ben through their bond.

  
What would their _Father_ had said? His greatest disappointment. Those biting words cut at Klaus all throughout childhood. He never respected them, from belittling the fear, to ignoring the ever-growing addiction festering under his nose, to refusing to use the right pronouns berating Klaus for their “inability to just pick” and “need for attention.” When Klaus failed to advance, Hargreeve wrote them off as a failure, a failure who needed punishment in the guise of training. Klaus improved faster out from under his thumb, and most achievements happened by accident. Those facts would send Hargreeves into an early grave if he ever found out. Maybe they should send him a letter.

  
Klaus, one leg draped over the sofa, looked up at Ben from their position on the floor. Glancing at the book for a moment, they raised their hand and shakily signed out the message “ _Hello, my name is Klaus_.” Ben grinned, repeating the motions except filling in his own name in place of Klaus’. Having a method to speak with them again, even if not vocally, filled Ben with indescribable joy. Never once in their history could Ben remember Klaus being quiet by choice. Even jaw broken, they tried to talk and groan through the wiring.

  
Interrupting their moment of bliss, one of the library staffers walked by, stopping in a section of books next to where Klaus and Ben lay. She made no attempt to hide the real reason for her pausing; her pointed gaze left nothing up to interpretation. Evident in her demeanor, the woman already made assumptions about Klaus and could only wait for them to come true so she could drag them out. Despite the library being a public residence, it did not take to those they found unruly, even if no evidence could be given to support the claims. While the door stayed open to all, many staffers waited with bated breath for some visitors to cross an unwritten line or make a minor offense.  
Klaus tried to pay her no mind, instead focusing on signing to Ben. Relief and euphoria flooded their system at the prospect of talking again. Ben had made the suggestion weeks ago, but Klaus was hesitant. Not the fear of learning a new language but giving up on their old one lead them to put off learning. However, no matter how close they and Ben were, physical cues only went so far, and they did not possess the patience to write every thought.

  
Mind distracted, Klaus missed another staffer walk up next to them until he cleared his throat rather abruptly. Whipping their head up, Klaus gazed up at him with wide, semi-innocent eyes. “Get your feet off of the couch or I’ll have to ask you to leave this area of the library,” he said curtly.

  
All the years at the Academy conditioned Klaus to respond to direct orders. Foot falling out in place before them, their breath hitched and their back and shoulders straightened. Looking up at Ben to copy his motion, Klaus raised their fist to their chest, rotating it clockwise. " _Sorry_." The man’s eyes shifted as if he expected more resistance from the boy before him. Pausing for a few seconds longer than comfort, he finally left for nothing in the situation called for him.

  
As the setting sun cast shadows along the walls, Klaus turned to stand. Securing a spot to sleep was infinitely harder after the sun fell. Feeling eyes follow them, they placed the book they used to study back upon the shelf. Klaus had no illusions that the staff would never allow them to check out the book. Not that they would have tried. The fear of it being stolen or ruined by the forces surrounding where they lived circulated in their brain. Securing their bag over their shoulders once more, they traveled through the halls of books towards the exit. Before pushing the glass door free to the outside, Klaus turned and gave their beamed brightly at the watchful figures tailing their departure. Ben, unseen as he may be, stuck his tongue out in solidarity.

  
Hiding in the shadows, Klaus edged along the backroads and alleys. Covering their trail just enough, they settled in an abandoned back alley under a piece of fallen rebar. Their slim form fit easily in the passageway, while others looked over it entirely. Klaus set up camp, small and light in case they needed to escape with little warning. Looking at their stash, food and alcohol ran low and they had been out of cash for days. All problems for another day. Lighting up the rest of half-used joint, Klaus breathed in trying to drown out the ghosts of the day. Ben splayed himself above them, keeping a watchful eye on the ground below. Knocking on a piece of the wooden structure, Klaus got Ben’s head to turn. With shaking hands, they crossed the top of their chest with their arms, hands in fists, before pointing at their brother.

  
“I love you too, Klaus”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings  
> Drug and Alcohol use, vague mentions of assault, prostitution and predatory behavior toward youth, transphobia


	5. v

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaus considered themself lucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reason I don't use dialogue. BEcause I suck at it. 
> 
> Other news I have a lot going on in my home life (therapy, mum using my meds as leverage, and all that jazz) so if I don't post for a while blame that.

Klaus considered themself lucky. A foreign concept and seemingly contradictory to their place of life, for their situation did not lend itself kindly to comfort. It took them quite a while to reach that state, but once the thought appeared, it took root spreading throughout their mind. Of course, there were days when the pain rained down, when the screams would not let up, when they pushed down their pride and their shame to earn just enough money to last them the week or the day. The days Klaus was certain luck abandoned them.  


However, Klaus saw the ruins of others' forms and heard the laments from their mouths. So many faced the horrors and pain by themselves -- one event the catalyst causing them to succumb entirely. Alone in a world set against them, fighting endlessly against those who want them dead. But Klaus was not alone. That small comfort held them firm when their foundations swayed from underneath. Ben acted as a constant, security when danger lurked. Aftermath after aftermath, he dragged Klaus through. Picking up the pieces which chipped off week by week -- from the scratches on their back and knees from being pushed upon the rough pavement to red-rimmed eyes caused by drugs, lack of sleep, and haunting calls alike -- Ben tried to help them heal as best he could.  


Not everything could be cured -- deep wounds left to fester for far too long, scars from childhood cut open again and again. For Klaus to rise, when the weights on their shoulders only grew greater, took resilience unparalleled. That did not stop the negative effects from draining on young teen -- but young did not accurately describe them anymore. The life lived erased innocence and youth leaving weary dried out souls in its wake.  


Surrounded by predators, Klaus appeared as ample prey. And while some gladly took advantage of a voiceless seemingly schizophrenic teen, a few took pity. Often they found themself unaware of information well known to those versed in their way of life.  


Klaus scrounged for food from bin to bin, looking for enough to sustain them. Hunger pains gnawing on their stomach were not new to them, tracing back to the days locked inside the mausoleum. What little money Klaus obtain, they spent on less healthy sources -- sources that staved of the ghosts and cold and the hunger. The short term benefits far outweigh the long term pain; they learned that lesson long ago.  


However, the nourishment food provided could not be delayed for much longer. Stopping outside a bakery, Klaus crept towards the dumpsters. Once shame would have overtaken them at the thought of sifting through rubbish to eat, but there was no room for pride on the streets only hope for survival. The increased frequency of trips to the library meant that Klaus spent more time on the side of the city where the Academy stood. When they first ran away, they gave the area a wide berth, not daring to step foot past an imaginary line they set up in their mind. But necessity beat fear.  


The few shops Klaus stopped at had already been scavenged, picked dry of all its valuables. Therefore, Klaus praised their luck when prying open the lid of one of the cans and finding it mostly full of stale goods, thrown out after closing. Pulling out a reusable bag they found along a street corner, they became to pack it with the disposed pastries. Klaus broke open a roll of bread, tearing it in half to take in its scent. After months of inhaling substances with the sole purpose of wrecking their body, Klaus expected their senses to be a little shot, so when the smell of the crust provoked a memory of a pungent sour variety, no alarm flared up. They bit into a small loaf, trying to savor it as best they could. However, hunger got the best of them, and in four bites it disappeared down their stomach.  


Only when they began scarfing down another did a voice call out to them. “I’ds stop if I was ya.”  


Flinching, Klaus turned to the noise. Usually, the haze of drugs and the use of shoes prohibited ghosts from appearing fully formed, instead drifting across waves of sound vibrating in the kid’s ears. However, Klaus could clearly see the man before them, leaning against the wall at the entrance of the alley blocking their escape -- if he proved to be real.  


The man stumbled forward, haggard by the wear the streets provided. Klaus' eyes flitted around, teeth tearing at their bottom lip. Ben, who up until that point sat perched upon a dumpster, jumped down and shifted his position between them and the man. A small comfort, but comfort all the less.  


With each step the man gave, their hand lurching, growing dangerously near where Diego’s knife was strapped. Klaus refused to hurt anyone yet -- instead letting them all take what they wanted from them when running away failed -- but the combination of starvation, training, fear threatened to win out.  


Acknowledging the feral terror in the younger’s posture, the other stopped his advance, slowly raising his hands part way up his body. “Don’t mean no harm. Ya look like us got anough,” he added eying Klaus’ slim form. Blood dripped slowly from a recently opened split lip and bruises shown stark against pale skin peering out from under their torn collar.  


“Just warnin’ ya.” he asserted. “That food ya got there,” flicking one hand towards Klaus, “there a reason no one taken it no more.”  


Unable to control themselves, Klaus’ gaze darted to the stale food in their hand. Hoping to cover up the moment of weakness, with skilled precision paired only with their own brand of erratic motions, they allowed their focus to be momentarily taken by the unseen.  


However, the man undeterred by the action, read the meaning behind Klaus’ movements. “I ain’t lyin’. Just don’t wanna see anotha kid die on my block.” Sadness turned sharp. Jaw set he said “Them bastards ratha have blood on their hands than us taken their old garbage. Laced with rat poison we reckon.” His head fell, voice gruff “Too late for em afta they got sick.”  


The meaning of trust had all but been scrubbed out of Klaus’ personal dictionary. Ben kept it from being erased completely, but the word, even in childhood, never extended farther than a chosen few. However, the pain rang true, not something easily faked. Klaus wondered if their ghost deterrents cleared from their system how many ghost haunting the store would be visible.  


Opening their palm, Klaus let the food fall, signaling a truce. Slowly, they tipped over the bag, mourning slightly as they watched the acknowledgment of the spoiled collection land at their feet. However, time waited for no one, and crying solved nothing. Having lost part of a day's work, Klaus knew they needed to move fast in order to make up ground.  


Nodding once, they bid their leave, edging along the wall to the open air of the street. The unnamed man, however, put his hand against their chest as the walked past. Flinching, Klaus jerked back, eyes wild, fear clear.  


“Ain't ya gonna say thanks?” he asked.  


A fire ignited behind Ben's eyes, while Klaus’ dulled. They dropped to their knees without complaint, reaching out with trained precision despite the tremors running through them. How could they forget nothing comes for free?  


“Aw hell naw kid,” the man choked out. “Get arn up; I ain't looking for one of ya.”  


Before he could utter another word, Klaus fumbled in their pockets. Emptying its contents, they shoved their hands forward in the guy’s direction. Head bowed they begged silently their offering would appease the man. Scattered pills and coins filled their trembling palms, but they had very little left to offer. Their main bag, packed with the variables that Klaus had not sold or hidden elseward, lay back at their camp off their person.  


The man shoved Klaus with the edge of his boots, the toes worn from overwear and soles held together with duct tape. “Don't want that eitha. I’ds take the pills arn principle, but I know what ya do ta get some more. And I don’t need that arn my conscience, ya hear. But just ‘cause I'm old don't mean ya youngin’s can walk away wit’out sayin’ a word of respect.”  


Klaus gazed up at the man before him but made no move to right themself. Eyes wildly scanning, settling on Ben for only a second, Klaus shoved their hands into their pocket before raising one open-handed to his lips. Bringing it down palm out, they mouthed “Thank you.”  


The man scrunched in his eyebrows. “Ya not deaf. Mute then.” The tone held no question, but Klaus nodded anyway. The guy before them muttered a quiet curse. “I got no obligation, none boy.” Klaus grimaced. “I'd done my deed.” Muttering under his breath once more, he tilted his head back and forth every couple seconds. Klaus side eyed Ben, still frozen on their knees unsure of what to do. Ben shrugged and looked to the entrance of the alley, unspeaking -- falling back to the patterns of the past when others could hear him.  


Before they could move, the man groaned, appearing to have lost his mental battle. Grabbing Klaus by the jaw, he hoisted them up and forced them to look at him. Klaus scrambled, fingers clawing at the hand locked around them, mouthing the word “please” as best they could. A fine line marked life and death. Fight too much and they might kill you on the spot for the principle of the thing; fight too little and they may overcome you entirely. Klaus more often than not balanced along the middle of the two.  


“Stop!” the man demanded. “I ain't tryin’ ta 'urt ya. Stop fightin’ me.” The grip loosened, and Klaus forced themself to relax, heart still hammering in their chest. The presence of Ben, who jerked to their side the moment the man moved, kept them from fully disassociating.  


One hand still wrapped around Klaus, the man rummaged the other through his coat before pulling something out. His thick callused finger blocked Klaus’ view of the small item. “If ya eva ‘urt promise me ya go ta--Look at me!” he shouted, enforcing the statement by squeezing harder for a moment. Wet eyes and trembling lips met his stare. “Ya ‘urt, ya go ‘ere,” he said brandishing the object from his coat: a card with street addresses written in messy scrawl. “I’s know ya won’t botha wi’t the clinic. They turn ya in from whereeva ya runnin’ from. This guy won’t.” Klaus bobbed their head, realizing the man wanted acknowledgment. “The other names ah safe ta go. Secon’ one gives food in the AM. Six.”  


He shoved the paper into Klaus’ hand, at the same time loosening his grip just enough for them to slip free. Falling to the ground, they clambered on hands and feet backwards to the wall of the alley. The man let them. They each stared down the other, neither moving neither breathing. Ben’s harsh whisper of “Run” finally got them mobile, bolting up and sprinting like their life depended on it, for maybe it did.  


They lasted six blocks before their starved frame gave out on them, and they collapsed against a wall. Breath heavy from excursion and fright, Klaus allowed themself a minute to curl up on themself. Ben sank to their side, feeding warmth through their chilled body. Taking out the note, a choked sob escaped their lips. Memories -- personal and delivered from the dead -- of how that situation could have gone filled their mind. To leave alive, much less unscathed, Klaus refused to believe in God but even they admitted they experienced a miracle.  


“I’ll scope out the addresses tomorrow or the next day. Yeah?” Ben asked. As much as he did not want to leave Klaus, measures of safety had to be taken. Some of which required sending Ben ahead to check an area. No matter how bad Klaus appeared, they needed to keep moving or they would not survive; Ben made sure when Klaus could not force themself up to do it for them.  


Nodding, for they were in no shape to sign, Klaus signaled their agreement with Ben’s plan. Getting up, they got ready to go. One day, one minute at a time, they would make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning:  
> Drug use, allusions to Prostitution, Physical assault, reference to poison and death


	6. vi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Days such as these almost made Klaus miss the Academy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not that evil. I think you all will like the plan I have cooked up. I just have to get there in the plot.  
> Also, I just wanted to throw Terry Pratchett in here. I don't ever remember learning it, but its been lurking in my head for years.
> 
> While the actual warning is in the endnotes, I'll just say this chapter does go into a little more in detail than my other ones so far. Still nothing graphic

Coughs racked Klaus slim form, nearly sending them to the ground. It started as a tickle at the back of their throat, easily ignored, almost forgotten in place of more essential things. With limited shelter, poor nutrition, and varying degrees of warmth, people's health tended to drop quite frequently. The most people could do was push through, unless they shilled out the rest of their funds on overpriced meds which only delayed the inevitable.  


Klaus, recognizing the signs of the cold, battled on, judging by experience it would pass in a day or two. However, it refused to disappear. For days it persisted, only growing in its intensity. Ben, watching from the sidelines, voiced his concerns only to be brushed off in Klaus’ signature matter of flippancy. Ever since childhood, Klaus suffered from a compromised immune system, a mix of drugs and stress wearing on their body. Klaus never bid it much thought, but Ben, with his keen eye and too high an empathy, tracked each fall to illness, recognizing the similarity between symptoms. He knew the likelihood that Klaus unknowingly obscured a more severe illness and, feeling unable to help Klaus with much else, pestered them to rest. Klaus, trained since birth to go beyond their limits, smirked each time and with a sloppy but skilled movement only they could truly master, signed out “There ain’t no rest for the wicked” -- or more accurately “wicked never rests.” The actions often lead to a sing-off between the two, seeing which one remember the lyrics and the signs the best. Neither had an extreme advantage over the other in terms of the language, for while Ben had more time to study -- no need for sleep or food or money -- Klaus lacked the ability to cheat -- they lost a language and in order to communicate had to learn one anew.  


With the weather as it was -- temperature bordering the line freezing and rain spitting from the darkened sky -- Klaus would have loved to have curled up in the back on the library, book in hand, studying near a heater. Fate seemed to have her fun toying with them, however. The day started off harshly with Klaus waking up well past sunrise, missing the handouts at the corner store as well as the trash being collected. Their joints stiff from sickness and posture groaned as Klaus trudged mile after mile. After making the long trek to the library halls and settling in almost out of sight, a coughing fit overcame them. Ben managed to warn them before a staffer could sneak up on them in their impoverished state. Klaus’ cheeks blushed pink, holding a cough on the back of their throat. The staffer pursed her lips, only to bare the deadliest of smiles a few moments later. Her eyes, calculating blue, reflected no light as she stared down at Klaus’ figure.  


Stepping close to effectively pin them in and prohibit them from standing, the lady made a tutting sound with her tongue. “You were making *quite* the disturbance.” Choking back a cough, Klaus wheezed, gasping on air. “I'm afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave the premises until,” she paused, “all of that is sorted.” By the end of her statement, she failed to even look at the teen, instead inspecting her nails, rubbing her thumb against the newly coated polish.  


Powerless to hold back the fit, Klaus fell in on themself spitting out wet, gasping sounds. The lady took a few steps back, turning her head away while raising the back of her hand to cover her nose and mouth. Ben counted off in a steady pace, thinking back to the nights he had done the same. Try all he could, death prohibited placing their hand on his heart and burying their head in his shoulder. All the same, the spasms subsided, leaving Klaus gulping in air, struggling to keep Ben’s time.  


Barely giving them a second to breathe, the women chirped “Well. Come. Come. Up you get. Don't make me call security.” Klaus staggered, a wave of white hitting their vision as they stood. They braced themself on their knees in an attempt to not keel over.  


“Give up the theatrics,” the lady said rolling her eyes. With the tips of two of her fingers, she pinched the edge of their collar. She then all but dragged the teen behind her, giving them no mind as they fumbled every few steps. On the journey to the front hall, the three past other employees. Klaus, lips wavering, looked on at them with pleading eyes, but one glance from the staffers’ superior shut down any attempt the underlings might have made to help.  


Arriving at the exit, the women wrenched the ASL book from their grip. Glancing at the binding, she scoffed, “Waste of time, personally. Who is going to want you around long enough to learn?” She laughed, “Good thing you use your mouth for something else, isn’t it?”  


Ben straightened. If looks could kill, she would be damned four times over. Beside him, Klaus wilted. The words were nothing new, but they stung just the same. They put forth little resistance as the lady swept them out onto the street. She turned away without sparing them a second glance.  


From outside the clear doors, Klaus saw a patron approached the women. While the question was too soft to be heard, the response drifted outside, just loud enough to reach Klaus’ ears. “One minute, my dear. I will be right with you. I just have to go and wash this grime off my hands.”  


Days such as these almost made Klaus miss the Academy. Behind the pain and the neglect, lay no worry for warmth or food (unless punishments were doled out) and the illusion of love and care. An early grave surely met them all (just ask Ben) but what life was lived when one's body is wasting away before their very eyes with those who could stop it watching on in disgust? Neither choice safe, neither choice enjoyable. Only Klaus's pride and Ben’s worth kept them from falling back into its grasps.  


The soft murmurs of Ben’s voice drew Klaus back to the present. His hands moved fluidly, signing the words along with him. He knew better than to say the empty niceties of “I’m sorry” or “it will be ok” for who knows better than a dead man that the words mean and change nothing? (Maybe the one who can see them.)  


Walking a block, Klaus stopped into a dingy looking shop, slipped into the back washroom. Praising small miracles, they turned the lock on the single stalled room after thoroughly checking it out. Turning on the water as hot as it would go, they scrubbed their hands and arms, lathering up with soap. Next, they shimmied off their pants, not knowing the next time they would have the privacy wash all the way. Ben leaned against the door with his head between his legs to give them a resemblance of space, not as if he had not seen everything before. They scrubbed quickly but harshly, however, still unable to erase the mire staining their skin. Detesting the open air upon their bare skin, they throw their clothes not waiting for the drops of water to dry.  


Klaus took more care with their face, wiping the caking makeup off slowly. The mascara bled down their cheeks leaving black tears in its path. Minutes past before all resemblance of product was removed. Klaus stared blankly at themself, the cracks and dirt streaking over their face. Eyes almost as hollow as their cheeks, dark bags carved deep underneath, and chapped lips bitten bloody glared back.  


As Klaus went to dig around in their pocket, they started to rasp again. Clasping hold of the sides of the sink, their knuckles turned white. In Ben’s opinion, the attacks lasted longer each time and sound worse by the minute. “Klaus,” Ben urged “please take a break tonight. You'll only get sicker if you don't rest.”  


“Why does this remind me of Samuel Vines’ Boots Theory?”  


“You know it's Vimes. And don't give me the excuse you confused 'm’ with 'n,’ smartass.”  


Klaus grinned. With steady hands only used for makeup and shooting up, Klaus applied their eyeliner, saving what little mascara remained for a busier day. Ben frowned aware of Klaus’ deflection but said “I would go with the plum lipstick. Looks nice with the whole gothic vibe you're rocking.” Klaus stuck their tongue out but pulled out the tube anyway.  


Twirling around in a “what do you think” sort of manner, Klaus allowed themself a moment of happiness. Ben clapped the tips of his fingers to the heel of his hand, pouring high praise and honour down. Flashes of rummaging through Allison’s closet and runway shows obscured the soiled walls and sharp pain running through them.  


A pounding on the wooden door brought them back into the present. Fixing on their game face with an open posture and a sultry smile, Klaus swung the door wide. The guy trying to get in took a step back automatically before hungrily eying their form up and down like a piece of meat.  


“Oi leave ‘em alone!” came a shout from the back. “Phantom doesn’t start ‘til another half an hour. If you want a bite, you better be willing to shill out. And trust me, Liam, you usually aren’t.”  


Liam grumbled but made no real effort to defend himself against the remark. Clearing out of the way, he gave view to the man who spoke up: Amayr. They managed the shop and happened to come across Klaus once or twice. The second time involved him dragging them to his shop after a particularly bad beating. The two rarely communicated, for Amayr could not understand ASL and Klaus, out of spite, refused to write by hand. However, by the nature of their frequent passings, if he did not see the kid every two weeks, Amayr thought he would grow concerned.  


Klaus tipped their thanks and headed for the outside -- not before throwing a wink at Liam.  


Phantom. Their moniker. Taken from their dark persona and tattooed palms. Their lack of words only added to the mystique. The name brought in some creeps with dark untested fetishes, however, Ben, ever the voice of reason, gave each a final say. When high out of their mind, only he could see the ghosts hanging around, and one was more than enough to say no. That also became a signature: telling johns they were haunted. It started when one would not take no for an answer and demanded a reason why. With trembling hands, Klaus detailed the two ghosts following the man: a twenty-four year old male in a suit with his own tie wrapped around his neck and a teenager face beaten in and bloody. Klaus thanked the shock, which stopped the man cold, for allowing them to get away alive. They do not know why but the rumor then spread of the young whore who knew a person's ghosts better than them.  


Refusing to work under an authoritative figurehead again, Klaus freelanced. A few no man's land corners existed; those who walked them knew the danger, knew the risks. No one batted an eye if a girl disappeared from her stop or if a boy showed up black and blue. They knew what they were getting into, and life carried on.  


Withdraw started fully kicking in as Klaus rounded their corner at 16th Street. An Irish pub stood a few feet down, with sounds from the back alley poker game carrying on the air. Spirits hazed on the sides of their vision not fully manifesting, and the wind drowned out most of their cries. The high, while gone from medicated sources, came from the fever Klaus was trying to ignore. They had been sicker, hurt worse, but the black dots encroaching on their vision and nausea rolling in waves when the moved grabbed hold of their attention and would not let them focus on anything else.  


A car pulled up a few meters down; Klaus and another girl locked eyes. Feeling generous, Klaus tipped their head, motioning at the vehicle. The girl sauntered off, baring her neck and swinging her hips. Watching her go, Klaus moved back to their position against the wall. Dizziness suddenly overtaking them, they fell overtaken by a field of black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warning:  
> Discrimination against the homeless and sex workers, ableism, underaged prostitution, mentions of death and murder


	7. vii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The trek up to the physician's house lasted forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not a doctor, so I'm definitely taking some liberties. And once again I am left wondering why characters need to speak.
> 
> The only reason this is coming out now is because I'm lazy. I could have kept writing and combined this with the next chapter but realistically that would have set back me posting by a week or two. 
> 
> I'm getting close to introducing a third character from the show (not saying who) into the mainish plot. I just gotta get through these few chapters.

Klaus woke to a brush of cold and a weight on their chest. From their right, broken sobs resounded off the walls. It took more than a few tries to get their eyes open, each time the weight behind their eyelids dragged them back down. With them open, Klaus pried themself upright, digging their palms into the pavement below.  


The crying turned into a quiet whimper, and Klaus turned their head to see Ben crawling closer to their side. “You’re awake, you’re awake, you’re awake,” Ben repeated, voice giving out. Klaus had the sense the words were more for Ben than them. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop him. I’m so sorry.”  


Running their hands through their hair, Klaus took inventory on their body. Pain radiated from their chest and head, but otherwise, nothing felt out of place. The cold bit at their toes and fingers, leaving them almost numb. Looking down, Klaus saw the meaning behind Ben’s apology: their jacket and boots were missing, taken off their body as they had lied unconscious. Klaus tried to huff, which only ended with them doubled over, hacking. Once air flowed normally in their lungs, they signed wryly, “I just starting to grow used to shoes.”  


Ben choked out a laugh; Klaus’ humour never failing to break through whatever mood they were in. However, the thoughts still remained. “I can’t do anything for you.”  


Putting his hand up without even looking at them, Ben stopped their objection before it reached their hands. “Don’t tell me I’m not. That I’m helping you just by being here. Because you’re hurt and sick, and I can’t stop that!” He paused laying his face in his hands. Taking a breath -- more for the calming effect than necessity -- Ben continued. “What I can do is make you get help. I’m not going to watch you die or waste away out here. Now take as long as you need, but we are visiting that doctor from before.”  


Klaus sighed, wheezing as they did so. Shifting their torso, they leaned close to Ben without going through him. Unlike other ghosts, whose presence brought a flash of cold, lingering far after they left, Ben instilled warmth. The two did not dare to question why Klaus fared so differently with Ben than the other creatures of the dead. Despite knowing they could not stay there forever, Klaus remained rooted, basking softly in the warmth their brother provided.  


It took another coughing fit and Ben's concerned eyes to compelled them to move. To stand without falling required four attempts -- Klaus’ legs steady as a tower of cards waiting for a gust of wind. The pavement under their feet was rough but not unfamiliar; callous built up from long ago protected them from most sensation. Ben stayed glued to their side, casting off his heat in waves over the bare teen.  


For Klaus’ battered body, the trek up to the physician's house lasted forever. Located on 36th and Young, the streets in between seemed to stretch for miles. Ben was the one who pointed out the address after they almost past the small apartment tucked in the middle of the busy road. It was situated on top of an old pawnshop, sandwiched between barbers and a tailor. A thin alley separated the tailor and the pawnshop, with a back entrance giving way to the upper apartments.  


Ben motioned with his head, giving Klaus, in all ways but physical, a gentle nudge. They scowled but moved forward all the same. Breath heavy, they eyed the staircase as one would Everest -- but Klaus was always one for the theatrics. They managed to stay upright until they reached the last step where they fell, letting themself crumble against the frame. Raising their hand up, they skimmed the buttons on the intercom. Ben, the saint, told them when to stop and push.  


Tapping it three times, holding it for another three longer beats, and repeating the first set, Klaus prayed their message landed. Their hand collapsed immediately into their lap, lacking the energy to lift it any longer.  


Ben knelt beside them. “You did good; just a little longer. You think you can do that?” Klaus, despite their drooping eyelids, nodded. On a repeating cycle, every few seconds their head would drop and their eyes would blink rapidly as they lifted it up. But they remained conscious until the door they used to prop their body on wrenched open.  


Klaus propelled backward having no ability to keep themself upright. They collapsed by the stranger’s legs, who sidestepped the unknown figure falling on him. An audible “Oh” escaped from the man’s mouth, taking in the sight in front of him -- a half-dressed teen bordering on consciousness letting out harsh, shallow breaths. Bending over, the man positioned Klaus’ arm over his own shoulder and stood up, pulling them to their feet. Turning with guided grace, he led Klaus up the narrow staircase to what could only be his apartment.  


The fluency of the action led Ben to suspect this was not time someone collapsed at the man’s door. Selfishly, Ben was grateful, but still, his mind wandered. How many people, hurt or sick, landed on this man’s door with no where else to go? The monsters under his skin, which in death reminded mostly dormant, lurched. With death, he gained control, but even they -- the creatures too feared, too turbulent to be contained -- roared in shared pain. In an effort to calm them down and to put his own mind at ease, Ben drifted after Klaus. He did not need to walk, death came with the ability to transports oneself, but Ben found it grounding, connecting him to life.  


He caught up with them on the top step, keys out of the man’s pocket and in the process of opening his door. Klaus, position precariously on the guy’s shoulder, moaned as they half walked half slid through the entrance and the apartment. He moved them rather quickly out of the main hall. In a side room, he set them on a couch, covered in plastic. The room itself looked scarcely lived in, bare of the fixtures which set apart a house from a home. Ben pondered if lack of income or fear of being robbed from the variety of strangers the man opened his doors to cause this.  


With Klaus lying down, the man quickly darted around, picking up medical supplies placed haphazardly on different surfaces. He dumped them on a night table beside the sofa before turning to study Klaus for the first time. Shaking their shoulder gently, he said, “Hey, my name is Carlos. I’m a doctor. Ok? You mind opening your eyes for me?”  


Klaus, so removed from the present, did not register the words at first. After a few seconds, they flinched out from under the man’s hand. Ben, having seen this haze before when Klaus was drugged up to the point they could no longer function, leaned close and spoke smoothly. “Klaus, it's ok. You’re safe. This man is a doctor and wants to examine you. He has made no move to harm you but wants you to open your eye.” Ben walked through those lines four times before Klaus started to blink awake.  


Unaware of the work taking place in front of him, Carlos smiled when Klaus’s gaze finally settled upon his face. From his kneeling position on the floor, he rocked forward. “That’s good,” he encouraged. Taking in Klaus’ frightened, half-aware state, -- eerily similar to that of the abused cat he had adopted from a shelter years ago -- Carlos moved slow. Similar cases were all too common, each handled with extreme care.  


Broadcasting his movements, he spoke clearly. “I going to check your pupillary response to light. It won’t hurt, but, to do so, I’m going to shine a light in your eyes for a second. May I have your permission to put my hand on your chin to tilt your head in the correct position?”  


Klaus glanced over at Ben. At his confirmation, they nodded. They suppress the urge to flinch that arose from the contact. A whisper in their ears laughed. They survived much worse and could not handle a light touch; that would not work on the job. Klaus shuddered, trying in vain to silence the inner voice. Drawing their focus to the doctor, they pushed the thoughts behind them.  


Taking a penlight from within his shirt pocket, Carlos brought it up to his patient’s face. He swiped the light from the edge of their head, over one of their eyes and back to the starting position. Wanting to keep them attentive, he asked, “Hey, can you tell me your name?”  


Klaus squinted their eyes both at the light and the question. The easy voice of Ben telling them it's ok prompted them to raise their hand and spell out the letters. The precise fluency they gained from months of practice wavered; a hesitancy evident in the formation of the lettering.  


The doctor, while trying to keep a passive face of professionalism, could not help but turn and curse under his breath. Questions burned in the back of his mind, but he held his tongue. However, some questions required immediate answers if the teen wanted treatment. He tapped the cushion beside Klaus’ head, forcing his lips to curve at the hazy gaze the child offered. “Are you deaf?” he asked tapping one finger near his ear, looping it to the edge of his mouth.  


Klaus cocked their head, giving it a little shake. A breath of air deep within their chest escaped their lips before transform into an unsettling round of hacking. Grabbing his stethoscope, Carlos pulled Klaus into an upward position hoping to help their shortness of breath. He attempted to lift up their shirt to listen to their lungs, but they wrestled away from the touch. Their breathing harshened as a result of the sudden and strenuous movements.  


Uncertainty plagued him, but the frail tortured actions compelled Carlos to try. “Klaus. It’s Klaus, right?” Not waiting for a confirmation, he barreled on. “I just want to hear your breathing. But that requires you to sit still and for me to touch you again. Ok?”  


Carlos held no conviction that the teen before him heard his words or if the request registered. Soon, however, Klaus flailing seemed to slow. Placing one hand on their shoulder in an act to steady them, Carlos again slipped the stethoscope under the thin layer of clothing. Klaus jerked minutely as the cool metal hit their skin but otherwise stayed in place.  


The rales and crackles gave the man a good guess at what plagued the homeless teen. Coupled with the delirium and the sweat glossed over their skin. Even from its place on near their neck, the fever's heat licked at Carlos’ fingertips. When the coughing ceased, his next objective would be to get the child's temperature.  


He let the stethoscope drop around his neck and began to rub small circles into his patient’s back. Minutes past before the rise and fall of their chest normalized. “Glad you're back with us. Well, me at least. Let's avoid laughing for the time being, shall we?” He reached towards the side table, grabbing a thermometer and alcohol wipe. “I'm going to need to take your temp next, yeah? Just gonna slip this under your tongue. Keep it there until it beeps.”  


Klaus tilted their head in thought. Ben, off to the side, shrugged. “He hasn't hurt you yet. What's the harm?”  


“Could be poisoned. Could be lulling me into a false sense of security.”  


Ben stuttered to a stop. “I hate that I can't tell if you're serious.”  


“Both,” however, Klaus willingly parted their lips.  


Unwittingly cutting off Ben's curse, Carlos leaned in between their eyeline, lifting the thermometer. He let Klaus examine it for a moment -- in an effort to earn their trust -- before placing it in their mouth. Klaus fidgetted, tapping their fingers against their thigh, eyes darting around the room trying to take in as much as possible. Carlos coughed loudly in an attempt to gain their attention and distract them. “So,” he said drawing out the syllable, “you’re not deaf then. Did you lose your voice with the illness and happened to know asl, or are you fully, you know….” He trailed off, the cracks in his demeanor shining through.  


Klaus lifted his hand, curled into a fist, a few inches from their face. They pressed the flats of their fingers into their lips, bumping into the instrument between them. “Mute.” They paused, looking at the doctor's faces before mouthing it in case the sign did not land.  


The thermometer jostled precariously, close to either being removed from under their tongue or falling out altogether. Klaus seemed unaware of Carol's concern, but instead, pointedly looking to the side, signed something too fast for Carlos to interpret. He attempted to keep his face neutral but wondered at who or what they were speaking. It was not the first time that night the teen communicated to an empty corner. Sadly, the number of homeless people who struggled with mental illness was extremely high. Carlos would not be surprised to find out Klaus’ guardians kicked them out for showing signs of schizophrenia or if they ran away and no one can looking.  


A series of high pitched beeps drew Carlos to the present. “103.4,” he stated reading the temperature off the device. He pushed down the urge to call an ambulance, knowing it would only send the kid running. Instead, he said, “That’s higher than I would like it. I’m going to get you some ibuprofen. You’ve taken that before, correct?” He waited for Klaus’ confirmation before continuing, “I’m also going to put some cool compresses on your neck and forehead. It should help lower your fever a little.”  


He shuffled out of the room leaving Klaus and Ben alone. Ben nodded his head at the door, shrugging his shoulders. He questioned, unasked but still heard, if Klaus wanted him to trail behind the doctor. Klaus ticked, a grimace on their lips. They sank back against the couch, focusing on their breath. They were grateful no ghosts -- other than Ben but when did Ben count as just a ghost -- crept on the edges of their vision. Not that the fever would allow them to see the spectors. However, Ben’s willingness to trust led them to believe the man in charge of their care was not haunted by his mutilated victims.  


Ben sank on the ground, back pressed back upon the side of the sofa. Personally, he and Klaus had no idea why he did not phase through settled objects. While unable to interact with things outside Klaus’ grip, he could climb or lean against structures at his will. Testing Klaus’ and, to an extent, Ben's abilities very rarely came up as conversation topics; more important matters were to be dealt with when survival is not a guarantee. But, for now, Ben blessed his semi corporeal state. Watching the rise and fall of Klaus’ chest, he rested, wishing death allowed him to sleep as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Warnings:  
> Implied/ aftermath of assault, sickness/fever,

**Author's Note:**

> I love the love you are showing this story. From every kudo to comment. You could comment an exclamation point or a novel and I would be ecstatic. If I don't respond to a comment its because I am way to nervous and don't know how.


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